


A Better Place Public Relations

by volunteerfd



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13584789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: After freakout videos of each of them go viral, Eleanor, Tahani, Chidi, and Jason become the most hated people in the United States and quite possibly the world. In 2018, that's quite a feat.Desperate to salvage their reputations--and their lives--they turn to A Better Place, a Public Relations firm that specializes in messes like them. But the founder's madcap ideas might do more harm than good. Will they be able to work together and change their lives for the better?Probably not.





	1. Chapter 1

It doesn’t matter if you’re a teacher, an attorney, a systems analyst, a homemaker, or a writer. It doesn’t matter if you’re a world-renowned professor, a well-off socialite, a popular Youtube star, or a highly successful snake oil saleswoman. Your life can always get worse.

 

Specifically: if you have a public meltdown and it goes viral, there’s nothing you can do except watch helplessly as your life plummets to rock bottom.

 

Not all public meltdowns are recorded, and even fewer meltdown videos go viral. But some get several million hits on the first day. Some are covered on  _ morning news.  _ When the perky 20-something newscasters announce “this disturbing and alarming clip” and cluck conspiratorially to their 60-something viewers, that’s when you know you’re fucked. 

 

First comes the public shaming. People you never even met will extrapolate ridiculous psychoanalytic theories about how you were raised and why you you hate yourself and what sexual inadequacies you have based on how you spoke in one five-minute window of your life. Worse, they’ll be right.

 

Then death threats. Somehow the masses get your e-mail address and home address and work address and phone number and parents’ numbers and siblings’ numbers. If you have an arrest record, you can be damn sure they’ll get that, too. 

 

Then you’re too much of a risk for your place of employment and they have to let you go. “Until this all dies down,” they promise. But it doesn’t seem like it will ever die down.  And it definitely doesn’t seem like they’ll keep that promise.

 

And even if you do get your job and your privacy back, you can’t imagine your life going back to normal. You’ve been dehumanized on a national level. You can’t imagine becoming a person again and doing all the normal, simple things you used to like

 

1\. SHOPPING FOR MILK

 

It was harder than getting tenure, but Chidi Anagonye  _ finally  _ figured out the most ethical brand of milk. Obviously, dairy milk was out. Even if the animals were treated well, dairy gave him stomachaches. He wasn’t lactose intolerant, but thinking of the different criteria for the ethical consumption of animal products made his stomach turn. There was no ethical reason to consume dairy especially with so many non-animal-based alternatives.

 

From an ethical standpoint, nut milk was better than animal milk. Sure, from a personal standpoint, Chidi opened himself up to a lot of jokes, but he could finally think about issues of practicality: cost, availability, variety, and whether or not he liked it.

 

But also brand. Some nut milk companies were so unethical, he might as well just go back to dairy _.  _ So after comparing environmental impact and carbon footprint and treatment of employees and the donations of CEOs, Chidi finally found the most ethical almond milk brand: The Happy Nut.

 

It gave him hives but only occasionally. 

 

He marched through Whole Foods without that particular weight on his shoulders. His calculations had been careful and thorough. If nothing else, he knew what milk to buy.

 

He was just about to put the bottle in his cart when his phone dinged. It was a News Alert. He idly turned on his homescreen.

 

HAPPY NUT CEO ARRESTED FOR EXPOSING HIMSELF TO A STATUE

 

Chidi felt all the almond milk he’d ever consumed rising up in his throat. This was bad. Of course he’d taken behavior of the CEOs into account, but he hadn’t known about this. Where did it fall in the grand scheme of things? It wasn’t like human trafficking or sexual assault. A statue wasn’t a person. But perhaps the CEO was so intoxicated he thought it was. In which case, should Chidi calculate based on his motivation? Or would it be unfair to assume? Perhaps the CEO had intended to expose himself to statue, and it would be unethical to kinkshame him.

 

If his motivation had been a sentient human being, would that be worse than donating millions to anti-LGBTQ political candidates? The CEO of the second-place brand, Free-range Nuts,  had done so,  but the company treated its employees very well and was conscious about its environmental impact. Chidi grabbed a bottle of Free-range Nuts Almond Milk. He held both in front of him, hoping for a revelation. 

 

Of course, revelations were not guiding forces. Only painstakingly-documented Excel spreadsheets cross-referenced with ethics textbooks were. 

 

The bottles trembled and shrank in his hands.  They were warping right before his eyes and he couldn’t figure out why until he was covered in slightly-tinged liquid in the middle of Whole Foods. 

 

He fell to his knees. Someone would have to clean up the mess, but he wasn’t sure if he needed to work  _ that  _ into his algorithm. Maybe he needed a separate algorithm about ethics becoming unethical--inadvertently, of course, but you never can know the full consequences of your actions.

 

Which made him wail. What was the purpose of making a 467-point spreadsheet about almond milk if it didn’t reveal an immutable and practical ethical truth?

 

“Maybe ethics isn’t practical!” He cried, still dripping nut milk on the floor. “What is ethical? What  _ is it?”  _

 

Then he went back to incomprehensible wailing. If Chidi had been a witness to this spectacle, he would have weighed the ethics of helping versus giving the person privacy and ultimately walked away. He certainly wouldn’t do the most unethical thing of all: recording it and posting it on the Internet.

 

2\. TAKING AN UBER

 

Tahani al-Jamil waited for no man. Except when she absolutely had to. The app said her driver was thirty minutes away, and she’d already been waiting for twenty. How on earth did Lyft stay in business? In the beginning, there was no shortage of drivers three minutes away, clamoring to rescue Tahani, and now, there was just one solitary driver trekking almost an hour to pick her up. It was a disgrace. Perhaps the economy was  _ too  _ good and fewer people needed to scrape for sub-minimum wage app-contractor jobs. Such a shame if her good works were being punished in this way. You can never really know the full consequences of your actions, especially charity and all that crap.

 

Twenty-eight minutes.

 

And what a dreadful night she’d had. She didn’t like to think about it. Her mind was getting clearer and she was running low on alcohol because she kept drinking it. She downed the dredges of her flask because there was no point in saving such a pathetic amount, then found a nearby liquor store and bought a bottle of whatever and returned to her place at the curb.

 

Three minutes.

 

The bottle was half finished by the time the car pulled up, but she kept it anyway for company.

 

“Evening,” the driver said.

 

“Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. Been waiting out there for an hour. You know how dangerous that is? I’m a hot commodity, you know. I could’ve been murdered. Found in a trashcan, legs sticking out.”

 

She took a hearty swig from her bottle.

 

“My shoes would’ve been stolen. Four thousand dollar shoes on a corpse. Or on a thief. They wouldn’t know. They wouldn’t  _ know. _ ” 

 

She pensively sipped, thinking about how little thieves would know about her shoes. The driver remained silent.

 

“Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Say something, then. I’m talking to you. It’s called a conversation. Ever heard of it?”

 

“You said you’re not in the mood to talk.”

 

“Well, clearly I am. I’ve had the worst night. And then I had to wait an  _ hour.  _ An hour! For a car! I should have a driver, like my sister. But all my drivers quit. Have you ever heard of a driver quitting? Well, I had six drivers quit, if you can believe it.”

 

“I can.”

 

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Do you know who I am? I am Tahani Al-Jamil.”

 

“You mean Kamilah? If you’re gonna pretend to be someone famous, at least get the name right.”

 

“No! I don’t mean Kamilah! I am Tahani Al-Jamil. I’m her sister. I mean, she’s  _ my  _ sister! I came first! I’m the better one!”

 

“You can’t be related to her. You got totally different auras. She’s got that, you know, benevolent transcendence.”

 

“I HAVE THAT BENEVOLENT TRANSCENDENCE! And there is no good explanation for me to have to wait an hour for a car.”

“You’re a one.”

 

“A one? Excuse me? I am a ten, but you wouldn’t know beauty if she sucked your dick, which she would never do, you toenail biting, eyebrow-faced wanker.”

 

“No. I mean your rating on the app. You’re a one out of five. No one wants to pick you up.”

 

“What do you mean, my rating? Are you saying that you chaffeuring peasants are allowed to rate  _ me? _ ”

 

“Yeah. So we know if you’re worth picking you up or not. Only reason I said yes to you was because you’re on my way.” 

 

“What’s next, mice chasing cats?” 

 

“Something like that,” the driver said, glancing at his dashboard-mounted phone.

 

“Well, on a scale of one to ten, I think you’re a little shit. Is that an option? Can I tell that to Mr. Lyft that you’re an impertinent little shit?” She put the bottle to her mouth again, but nothing came up. “Oh, and the booze left me, too, so now I have nothing left.”

 

The booze left her again. All over the carseat.

 

3\. FLYING ON A PLANE

 

Eleanor Shellstrop was no stranger to controversy. Controversy edged Eleanor closer and closer to the Fortune 500 with no skills, no talent, and most impressively, no nepotism. Controversy got Eleanor consistent spots on cable news to clarify her latest inflammatory remarks. Controversy helped Eleanor get over five hundred million Twitter followers--despite having no posts. Controversy made Eleanor laugh as she nursed a dry martini on her leather couch, watching the latest outrage on TV. So Eleanor was no stranger to controversy. Controversy was the closest thing Eleanor had to a best friend.

 

But controversy is only human, and relationships run their course, and controversy would become Eleanor Shellstrop’s most hated, backstabbing, treacherous bitch. 

 

It started on what was supposed to be the least controversial day of Eleanor’s life. She settled into her first-class seat on her way back to New York after crushing (in a good way) an eight-figure business deal. She planned on drinking free airplane booze until she passed out for the duration of the flight, which wouldn’t be hard since she’d been drinking since eight. 

 

All in all, supposed to be a good day.

 

But it’s never a good sign when an unwanted flight attendant is hovering over you. 

 

“Yes?” Eleanor asked.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss. There is a passenger with a health issue who requires a seat in first class.”

 

“Excuse me?  _ My  _ seat? Specifically my seat?”

 

“It’s random.”

 

“Uh, no, it’s not random. I paid for this seat. It’s my seat for the duration of the flight. Random is some poor asshole getting sick and needing to rough it out in economy. Sucks for them.”

 

For emphasis, she stuck her headphones over her ears and faced the seat in front of her. If she ignored the problem, it would go away. They’d choose another random, more compliant asshole to sucker out of their seat. Probably some NPR jagoff.

 

But that’s not what happened. Two beefy men appeared from seemingly nowhere and stood next to the flight attendant. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to.

 

“Sorry, ma’am. Unfortunately, the airline reserves the right to--”

 

“The airline reserves the right? The  _ airline?  _ What about the passengers, huh? Are you saying a corporation has more rights than human beings?” Generally, Eleanor agreed with that, but she was pandering. Or trying to. She glanced around to see if anyone was taking the bait, but no one looked up from their magazines or removed their eyemasks. “Are you  _ saying  _ that a  _ corporation  _ has more  _ rights _ than a  _ human being?”  _ Still nothing. “I thought this was America. “

 

“Ma’am, if you continue to resist, we will have no choice but to physically remove you from the plane.”

 

They were clearly ready to do that--hence the men--and once that happened, Eleanor wouldn’t be able to fight back. She could either acquiesce quietly and with some remaining dignity, or she could beat her wings futilely against cold, uncaring corporate policy. 

 

“Oh, I see! I was chosen because I’m a five-foot-one woman!  You think you can push me around, but you don’t know who I am! I have rights! I have rights! I have rights!”

 

If this had been the outburst that was recorded, Eleanor might have been able to save herself. Public perception would at least be split. But no one recorded it. No one even paid any attention. She was unceremoniously removed from the plane,  dropped into the waiting area, and given a $20 food voucher to La Pain Quotidien. As if that righted how she’d been wronged, as if anyone wanted to eat at La Pain fucking Quotidien. A fucking  _ airport  _ one.

 

She slumped in the waiting section like a petulant child, glaring at every waistcoast, until finally the flight attendant called her up for her new ticket.

 

“Sorry, ma’am, all our first class seats are booked. You’ll be sitting in coach.”

 

“Coach? I paid for a first class seat on a 10:20 flight and now you’re putting me on an 12:10 in coach. Are you fucking kidding me right now? You have to be kidding me.”

 

“Ma’am, we can get you on a first class flight on the next plane but that doesn’t leave until 4:30.”

 

Eleanor snatched the ticket from the flight attendant’s hand. 

 

“I am going to have your head  _ and  _ your ass.”

 

That wasn’t the outburst, either.

 

_ The _ outburst occurred when she landed, but the seeds for it were planted when Eleanor spotted the family walking down the aisle. A handsome family: two young parents, two sons, and a daughter, ages who the fuck cared. Too young to be out in public. And on a plane.  _ They better not sit anywhere near me.  _ Eleanor barely finished her thought before the mother and her daughter occupied the two seats next to her while the father and the sons took the three seats behind her. Eleanor slammed her head against her seat.  _ Goddamn it.  _

 

“Did y’all have a good time?” The mom called over her shoulder.

 

“Yes!” The kids chorused.

 

“Thank you, mom and dad, for taking us on that wonderful family vacation,” the oldest boy said.

 

“Kiss-ass,” Eleanor muttered, crossing her arms. Just what she needed: a family having a disgusting share-circle about their feelings and the great time they had, as if there weren’t other people on the plane who didn’t want to hear about their sickening family moments.

 

“I can’t wait to talk about what you all enjoyed, but out of respect for other people on the plane, we should read our books quietly,” the father said.

 

Eleanor wanted to vomit on his lap.

 

The kids and parents opened books and e-readers, but that wasn’t going to last. The kid directly behind her seemed like a seat kicker and the girl looked like a snotrag. Eleanor wouldn’t cut them any breaks just because they were kids.

 

She waited. The kids would do something. It’s what kids did. They ruined flights and ruined lives. Sure, take-off happened with no issues other than that obnoxious clapping from the entire plane. Ooooh, you’re doing the job you trained to do. Oooh, we’re in the air, how exciting. Now we’re gonna clap like trained seals. But  _ everyone  _ clapped like idiots. She certainly couldn’t scream at the entire plane. 

 

Soon she was above the clouds and  _ she  _ could look out the window--take that, kid--and zone out. 

 

Before she knew it, the plane landed. Obnoxious clapping again--we didn’t die! Whoop-de-fucking-doo!--and people getting their luggage prematurely and off the plane way, way, way too fucking slowly.  Eleanor sighed impatienty. How fucking long did it take to get off the plane? She’d be stuck in the goddamn seat for an extra hour when she was supposed to be home already. All because people didn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other.

Her seething was interrupted by a slight bump and scuffing from behind her and a polite “I’m sorry!” 

 

Of course. She’d pegged him as a seat-kicker from the moment he sat down.

 

“Excuse me, can you control your kids?” Eleanor said. 

 

“I--” The woman looked baffled. She probably didn’t expect to be called out for her precious spawn’s behavior. “I’m sorry. David, did you say ‘I’m sorry’ to the woman?”

 

“Yes!” David said. “I’m sorry again, anyway.”

 

“So an apology is supposed to make it all  better?” She directed the question at his mother because even Eleanor wouldn’t directly yell at a child aged, like, five or twelve or however old he was.

 

“Are you hurt?” The father asked, concerned.

 

“‘Are you hurt?’” Eleanor mocked. “No, I just wanted to have a nice, quiet flight without getting assaulted. What, you think you’re better than us just because you have a family? You think your kids are exempt from the rules of polite society?”

 

“It was an accident. I was putting my computer in my bag and it hit her seat.”

 

“Great. We all have excuses for the mistakes we make in life. Newsflash, asshole: the excuses don’t mean shit. It’s better you learn that sooner rather than later.”

 

“Listen, I can’t let you talk to my son that way.”

 

“Oh, you can’t? What are you going to do about it, big guy?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, lady! It was a mistake! He’s a kid! Move on!” Someone else shouted.

 

“Who the fuck are YOU? Mind your own business!” 

 

“He’s right! Calm down! Get help!” A woman added.

 

Soon the entire plane filled with shouts of “Shut up,” “you’re psycho,” “just go home,” and similar bullshit. It was way worse than clapping. 

 

But they were wrong. Everyone was wrong. Eleanor couldn’t stay there and let them be wrong like that, besmirching her character when she was obviously correct and had a completely appropriate reaction to a young boy scuffing her seat on an airplane. She didn’t know how long it went on for or what she said (five minutes and forty-seven seconds and a lot of vulgarity, according to the video), but she went down fighting.

In the following days, when almost every bad thing that could possibly be said about a person would be said about Eleanor Shellstrop, they couldn't say she didn't defend herself.

She just didn't do it well.

  
  
4\. MAKING VIDEOS

 

The entire Youtube economy is based on incredible idiots vying for the attention of a fanbase even dumber than they are.

 

This is an oversimplification, like all generalizations are, but it is essentially true.

 

Being too stupid to be a Youtube star is like being too patient to be a teacher or being too anti-semitic for the Third Reich. For a Youtube star to fall from grace, he must do something so stupid that it defies explanation. A Youtube star must limbo under the lowest bar of intelligence and kill someone trying to win. He must do something so breathtakingly dumb that his fanbase gains fifty IQ points by comparison and keep that intelligence boost long enough to forsake him. 

 

What Jason Mendoza did was worse.


	2. Chapter 2

The wall was blank except for “YOU WILL BE FINE” written in giant black letters. It was more dystopian than comforting, but Eleanor did not look away, trying to clear her mind, trying to be zen and pleasant. The public relations dipshit was supposed to help with that but it was never too early to start.

 

It may, in fact, already be too late.

 

In her entire career, Eleanor never needed public relations. She spit at the very idea and sometimes the people. After a controversy, someone would beg her to hire a spokesperson, and she’d choose some cokehead ex-White House employee to go on cable news and curse people out. That was what she thought of public relations. And it had gotten her this far.

 

For some reason, though, this was the last straw. Maybe because kids were involved. Or because people were nervous about airplanes. Whatever stupid reason, she had no choice now.

 

“Eleanor?” A perky brunette emerged from the office, heels clicking as she approached Eleanor. “Hi! I’m Janet!”

 

“Hi, Janet. So nice to meet you.” Eleanor smiled, showing her teeth. She’d smile. She’d remember Janet’s name. She’d find something it rhymed with so that she’d never forget. She’d do all those tedious good-person things that made people think you cared about them. Usually, perky people crumpled Eleanor’s mood and made her want to be extra bitchy to balance out the positive energy they were sending out. Now, though, she would parrot what’s-her-name.

 

Damn it! She forgot her name already! 

 

“I love your top!”

 

“Thanks! I love your...thing.”

 

It was a purple-green floral monstrosity that looked like it belonged on a flight attendant of a cheap airline with more crashes than landings.

 

Ugh, if only her flight had crashed. She wouldn’t need to put up with this shit.

 

“Thanks!” 

 

“Thanks!”

 

They stared at each other, eyes wide and mouths gaping.

 

“Well, follow me!” Janet said, turning around. Eleanor used the opportunity to let her smile and her shoulders fall. 

 

“The others are already here,” Janet explained, pushing open the door. “Hello, everyone. This is Eleanor. Eleanor, that’s Michael, the founder of Better Place Public Relations; Tahani Al-Jamil, also known as the Lyft Bitch; Chidi Anagonye--you may know him as the Al-moan Milk Guy, the Nutcase, Dairy Scream, Dairy  _ Queen,  _ and Crying Whole Foods Guy;  and--” for the first time, the light went out of Janet’s eyes and her smile faltered--”Jason Mendoza.”

 

“Eleanor, you’re late, but that’s OK. Have a seat,” Michael said.

 

“Late? You told me 1:30!”

 

It had been years since she let some old guy tell her what to do. Especially one dressed like a wacky sitcom neighbor. She knew that’s what she signed up for, but he was factually incorrect, and she wouldn’t--couldn’t--let that slide.

 

“I told you 1:00, but that’s OK. Have a seat.”

 

Eleanor huffed. The e-mail  _ said  _ 1:30. She wanted to whip it out and show it to him, show him how wrong he was and how  _ dare  _ he, but instead she took an empty seat next to Mama Long Legs. Eleanor glanced quickly out of the corner of her eyes, sizing up her competition. Legs so smooth it was as if no hair dared to grow on them, ebony tresses that tumbled past her breasts in perfect waves, a sleeveless floral dress that revealed slender but toned arms.

 

Eleanor hated her on sight.

 

“Well, now that Eleanor is finally here, we can begin.” Michael said. “You’ve all been caught in some egregious public act that was then recorded and posted online. Your reputations suffered. You lost your jobs. All because of one momentary lapse in judgment, a single moment of insanity. And that’s all it was, wasn’t it? Not a reflection of who you are as a person, just a single bad moment, a drop in the ocean of your life, that just happened to be disseminated as a record of who you are.”

 

Tahani nodded as if she were a CEO, and a board member had just said something she liked. Jason kept nodding. He seemed to like the movement. And Eleanor convinced herself that what Michael said was true and nodded. Chidi held up his hand. 

 

“Can I just say that--while I don’t want to cast aspersions on anyone’s moral character--what I did was comparatively not that bad? Tahani yelled at a driver making a fraction of minimum wage, Eleanor attacked a family, and Jason--” Chidi cut himself off, unwilling to describe what Jason had done. “I think if I explain my mental process and the geopolitical tensions plaguing every dairy aisle in America, then people would understand that my reaction was perfectly reasonable. I have a brief sixteen-point PowerPoint. Each point shouldn’t take more than three hours--”

 

“Oh Chidi. Chidi, Chidi, Chidi. The fact that you don’t realize why yours was so bad makes yours, in fact, the worst.”

 

Chidi furrowed his brow. His gaze hardened in concentration as if he were working through a serious math problem. Then he said, “No, I don’t think that’s...I don’t think that’s true…” But he didn’t sound confident at all, and he leaned back in his chair to mull it over.

 

“Can I also just say that I don’t think what I did was bad?” Jason said. “I thought it was awesome. Ooh! Is this a prank? Are we really going to get awards for our videos? Is Ryan Seacrest here?”

 

Michael placed his clenched fist in front of his mouth, choking back bile. “No. Now. The court of public opinion has spoken. The trial is over, closing arguments have been made, and the jury has reached a verdict. You have all been found guilty.”

 

The room was silent, mulling Michael’s words over: their situations really were that dire. No one had laid it out like that before. Sure, there were little signs, like getting dethroned from her own business and cars slowing down and throwing coffee on her, like Maher  _ and  _ Colbert  _ and  _ O’Reilly agreeing unanimously on their respective shows that she was the worst person in the world. (And O’Reilly usually had her back, the traitorous bastard!) But until an older white man sitting behind a desk and wearing a mauve bowtie laid it out like that, she could pretend that it wasn’t real. And based on the heavy silence in the room, everyone else thought the same thing.

 

Everyone except Jason. “Oh. Um. I’ve been on trial and I don’t remember any of that happening so--” Jason started. “I mean, sometimes things happen to me that I don’t remember but I really don’t remember that.”

 

The silence continued, but this silence was for everyone else to arrive at the same unspoken conclusion that ignoring Jason was better than explaining figurative speech to him.

 

“Now, as the Lohans and the Kardashians and the Trumps have discovered, the best way to get over bad press is to harness bad press, open your doors, and let the cameras into your life.

 

“I’m a very private person. I have a Youtube Lecture series called ‘Nietzsche? I Hardly Knew ‘Er’ but other than that--”

 

“Correction: You were a private person. Now you’re public carrion. Anyway, to make you all publicly relatable, I’m putting you all into couples. Chidi, you will be with Eleanor. Tahani, you will be with Jason.”

 

Eleanor sized Chidi up and down. Fine. Chidi seemed fine. Not Eleanor's usual fare, but it was just for the cameras, and besides, Chidi seemed like he'd be easy to boss around, which made every relationship easier. As long as she didn't have to listen to him whine all the time. She could handle it. Chidi looked petrified, but he wouldn't object. And Jason wouldn't argue, either, that lucky bastard, winning the jackpot here.

For the first time, Tahani looked ruffled. She looked from Michael to Jason and then back. “Excuse me, I’m with Jason? No. No, no, no. That simply won't do. I’ll take Chidi or even Eleanor--”

 

Wait,  _what?  '_ Even Eleanor?'  As if everyone were just offerings for Tahani and Eleanor were the second-to-last scrap?  “What do you mean, you'd ‘take even Eleanor?’ Who said I’d want to be with you? I'd clearly be downgrading." Eleanor grabbed Chidi's hand. Chidi looked ready to barf.

 

“Settle down, everyone. I’m sorry, the couples must be straight. Believe me, I am the least homophobic person ever. I’d love to see you two ladies in a loving, sexual, sensual relationship. But think about it, if we have one gay couple, that leaves what? Another gay couple? Two single guys? A polyamorous four-way? No. We can’t afford to stray too far outside middle America's expectations."

 

 

“Well, OK, I just meant--” Tahani swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “I just meant that the uneven dynamic between me and Jason--I just mean that--I clearly belong with the intellectual, and Jason and Eleanor are similarly a better fit. You know.”

 

“No, I don’t know, Tahani. Explain what you mean.” Eleanor spat.

 

“Oh, dear.”

 

“I don’t know what’s going on either,” Jason said.

 

“See? That’s what I mean! You can be the clueless--but lovable--rough-and-tumble kiddie couple and Chidi and I could be the intellectually stimulating adults.”

Eleanor's hand went to the arm of her chair. In other circumstances, she would throw it. 

 

Chidi spoke in a cracking whisper. “Um, do we need to be paired off? It’s already causing a lot of stress and drama--”

 

“No,  _ Tahani  _ is already causing a lot of stress and drama." Eleanor said.

 

"Chidi, settle down," Michael said. "These are the terms. They are non-negotiable. Do you agree to them or not?"

Tahani exhaled deeply, audibly, a three-act play in one breath. "Fine. I'll...make do."

 

"Well, I don't know if I feel comfortable working with such a snob," Eleanor folded her arms .

"Tahani, apologize to Eleanor," Michael instructed.

 

A small offended gasp escaped Tahani's mouth. "Ap--apologize? I--"

 

Eleanor smirked, eagerly awaiting Tahani's decision. She would either start up the drama again, which Eleanor was game for, or she would apologize, which would mean a victory for Eleanor. Tahani looked at Eleanor. 

 

"Eleanor, I am sorry."

 

Eleanor cocked her head to the side. She could accept the apology graciously or she could draw it out and make everyone suffer. 

 

"You're sorry for what?" Eleanor asked. Tahani looked hopelessly at Michael, then back at Eleanor.

 

"For--uh--for being a snob."

 

Again, Eleanor could accept or torture.  She let the apology hang in the air as she thought about her next move.

"Apology accepted, Tahani. I look forward to working with you."


	3. Chapter 3

The prospect of signing over her life wasn’t as daunting as Eleanor thought it would be. It felt like she was signing over childhood, a fleeting concept that never truly belonged to her and that she had since lost. She had only a small piece of her life left; the rest was snatched in the claws of the greedy, hungry masses. So what did it matter if, for a year, she was safely ensconced in a communal home? It couldn’t be worse than the world out there.    
  


It was a nice home, too, and set apart from the other houses in a nice neighborhood. It was maybe a step or two down from Eleanor’s current crib, but she didn’t care. She’d slummed it in cars and she’d slummed it on greasy ex-boyfriends’ couches. She wasn’t the type of person to get caught up in the varying degrees to which one hangover crash-pad was better than another. 

 

Tahani was, though.

 

Her smile froze when they pulled up to the house and she tried to make the word “quaint” sound like a compliment, but couldn’t quite bring herself to.

 

“It might not be quite what you’re used to, Eleanor--and Tahani--but don’t worry. There’s plenty of room for everyone! 

 

“All your needs will be accounted for,” Janet chirped. “It’ll be like an endless sleepover with your friends.”

 

No one brought up that they weren’t friends yet. Eleanor didn’t bring up that she didn’t  _ have  _ friends, never had friends, didn’t care to have them, was not going to start now. She had cherished enemies and those were good enough.

 

“Or a vacation. A timeshare. A nice little timeshare--”

 

“I don’t. Vacation. In timeshares,” Tahani said, her voice as cold and pointed as an ice stalactite. Perhaps realizing that her facade dropped, she added in a cheerful voice: “But I have done loads of charity work in little villages. I once stayed in a teeny tiny hut made of mud and twig. There was no running water! Can you believe that? So I said to Anderson, ‘Fire a pistol at its feet and  _ make it run _ , by God, or you and your mother’s names will be scrubbed clear from history.’”

 

Only pounding hearts broke the silence, even after Tahani laughed to let everyone know it was a joke.

 

“How do you share time?” Jason asked in awe.

 

***

“Are you ready to see your new home?” Janet sang, swinging open the door. “This is the foyer, and that--” she pointed to a corner in the ceiling “--is the very first camera! Wave to the camera, everyone!” 

 

“Camera?” Chidi asked.

 

“We’re being recorded? At all times?” Tahani asked.

 

Only Jason waved. Eleanor didn’t realize that “lives” including privacy, nor, it seemed, did anyone else. It was a fact conveniently glossed over in Michael’s pitches. She didn’t sign anything yet, and this bombshell was enough to keep the page blank.

 

“Of course. What’s the point of doing good things if no one knows you did them?” Michael asked.

 

“Actually,” Chidi said, “some argue that the true goodness can come only when it’s anonymous. In fact,  Maimonides’ second-highest form of tzedukah is when the donor  _ and  _ the recipient are anonymous. The first highest is--”

 

“Ooh cool! And if we do anything else crazy, you can show it to the world and get a billion views!” Jason exclaimed, still waving.

 

“Woah, hold up. The one thing I had going for me was that I never became some reality show trash.” Eleanor either drew lines very close or not at all; for the first time in her life, this seemed like an appropriate line. 

 

Michael pressed his hand against his forehead. “What are you not getting? You were seen by millions of people verbally assaulting a family. You  _ are  _ reality show trash. Now you can either consent to it or fight it.”

 

“There’s gotta be a less rapey way to phrase that,” Eleanor said, but he did have a point. She’d lived her life like realty trash but without the cameras. Then someone added cameras to the mix. Line crossed.

 

“The cameras are only a problem if you have another outburst, wouldn’t you agree? Otherwise, the entire world will see what good, relaxed, drama-free people you all are.”

 

_ Speak now or forever hold your peace,  _ a phantom priest commanded Eleanor. It wasn’t too late to turn back. But turn back to what? Constant scrutiny regardless, but no control over it. No job. She’d lost her own business. She had no friends, no family. What else could she lose? More dignity? 

 

She sighed, frustrated, not trusting Michael, hating Michael, hating the way he could convince her to do something that she knew in her gut would be ruinous and stupid. That was  _ her  _ thing, damn it. It was how she made her millions. It was her bread and butter--lobster and butter, really. Her shrimp and cocktail sauce. And here was  _ this  _ guy.

 

“Who’s ready to sign the waivers?” Janet said, brandishing four pens in one hand and, impressively, four clipboards in the other.

 

“We haven’t even seen our rooms yet,” Chidi said, his face turning a sickly shade of crimson-puce at the thought of attaching a signature to a decision, trying to delay the inevitable choice.

 

Michael put a head on Chidi’s shoulder. “I assure you nothing in those rooms will be as strong a potential deterrent as the cameras. So if you’re not going to turn back  _ now,  _ you’re not going to turn back at all.”

 

Oh, the bastard was good, Eleanor thought. 

 

Janet placed the clipboard and pen in Chidi’s hands, then Jason’s Tahani’s, and Eleanor’s. 

 

“Oooh! Paper!” Jason exclaimed, immediately scribbling his name in may or may not have been the signature line. 

 

Chidi turned green, reading each and every word on the page, breaking down every pixel in every character, trying to find a cosmic answer. He sat on the floor cross-legged and put the clipboard on his knees, bending forward until his nose almost touched the page. Michael crouched down to his level.

 

“Chidi, you have nothing to lose by signing.  Of the four, you have the least to hide.” 

 

“ _ I  _ have nothing to hide!” Tahani shouted, scratching her name with a flourish. “See?”

 

“Sometimes life gets confusing and you just wish someone would give you the answer. I can give you the answer: Sign.” 

 

Eleanor wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the waiver up and throw it in Michael’s face and hopefully get some scraps on Janet, too. But she wanted to sign. She really, really wanted to sign, if only to keep an eye on that bastard Michael. He had the makings of a cherished enemy. So she huffed and signed, never once looking away from him.

 

With one last moan, Chidi signed, too. 


	4. Chapter 4

Once the contracts were in Janet’s hands, Michael clapped his hands together. “Ready to see your rooms?” 

 

Eleanor gazed at the contracts. She’d read hers over and there was nothing shadier than what had already happened--what Eleanor had let happen, like an idiot. Janet had willingly handed over a magnifying glass when Eleanor demanded it and Eleanor could find no fine print. No invisible ink, no secret codes, no tricky quadruple negatives. Eleanor knew all the tricks: she invented most of them, perfected the rest. Still, she wanted to snatch the papers out of Janet’s hands and tear them up. 

 

But she didn’t. 

 

Maybe she had a subconscious propulsion towards her death and downfall, and if Better Place Public Relations couldn’t help her rise back up--and she didn’t believe they could--then they could at least hasten her demise. Maybe that’s all she’d been working for her entire life: a great height from which to fall, some sort of spectacular splatter.    
  


Or maybe she just wanted to see where this all went.

 

She thought about this while Michael led them down the first hallway and grandly opened the first door.

 

“First, Chidi, welcome.”

 

Chidi didn’t seem to have too many worldly wants, but even Eleanor knew that dorm-room chic was off the mark. The walls were lined with posters of  _ Scarface  _ and  _ Sausage Party _ , posters comparing the benefits of sex and weed, calendars of topless models (none at the right month). The giant TV would go to waste, as would the beanbag chairs surrounding it. 

 

One thing they got right, though, were the books. At least Chidi had a good number of shelves filled with books, overflowing with books, to remind him that he was an accomplished professor and not some state school stoner.

 

But the books were too thin and too uniform. Chidi also looked confused, standing in the doorway with his head cocked to the side.  It was Jason who first realized what they were. He bounded into the room, tearing things off the shelf.

“Sweet! Look at all these games! So many choices! Tony Hawk Motion, Tony Hawk Ride--ooh! Tony Hawk Shred Session! Tony Hawk Pro Skater 5! Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4! Tony Hawk Pro Skater 3! All the way down to one! And that’s just the Tony Hawk games! Super Smash Brothers--Super Smash Brothers Brawl--Dude, you got every system in here! I wouldn’t even know what to play first!” 

 

“Sorry, Jason, this is  _ Chidi’s  _ room,” Michael explained. 

 

Chidi frowned. “I’m not much of a gamer, actually. Are you sure this isn’t for Jason? He can have it if he wants.”

 

“Nope. The rooms have been carefully designed and curated for each individual participant. There is no mistake,” Janet chirped.

 

“Don’t worry, Jason, your room will be just as good,” Michael said, grabbing Jason’s shoulder and leading him out of the room with the others. Jason’s room was right next door.

 

“Damn,” Eleanor muttered. Tasteful oak shelves extended to the ceiling, leaving no room on the walls for tacky posters from Spencer’s Gifts. Just books. Hardback and leather, burgundy, navy, brown, big and small--but mostly big.   If she were into this kind of thing--libraries and shit--this would be the dream.

 

Chidi whimpered. Jason bounded into the room again and immediately went for the shelves, but when he tore through he realized there were no video games at all.

 

“I don’t think he should have a fireplace,” Tahani whispered. “It’s not safe.” She looked around to see if anyone agreed with her, but no one heard. Eleanor heard, but she wasn’t going to agree with Tahani. Or give her attention. Even if it meant they would all burn to death.

 

“These aren’t video games,” Jason said, flipping through a particularly thick Focault, a pile of discarded books at his feet. Chidi bit his knuckles.

 

“Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up in the paperwork? I’m Chidi, the ethics professor...that’s Jason, the...Youtube fellow…”

 

“No mix-up. And I don’t want you sneaking into each other’s rooms, either. I assure you there is a reason for everything. Now onto the girl’s wing!” Michael cheered, leading them down the hallway. “Eleanor, this is your room.”

 

What to take in first? The luxurious four-poster bed? The hand-carved oak vanity that took up an entire wall? Chandelier dangling right above her bed? They were all luxuries she could have afforded in her Before time, her heyday, but never splurged on.

 

For good reason: that junk was tacky as hell. Who the hell needed a full-length mirror?  

 

“Gorgeous view of the skyline,” Michael added. “And it’s Smart Home Technology. Watch this. Alexa, turn on the lights!”

 

“Got it!” Janet said, flipping the light switch.

“No, I wanted Alexa to do it. Turn off the light.” A pause. Nothing happened. “Turn off the light!”

 

Janet flipped the switch down.

 

“Not you, Janet, the machine.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t turning off the light so I--”

 

“Give it a chance! Alexa! Alexa!”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Turn on the light!”

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Can I see my room now?” Tahani blurted out. She was trying to hide how stressed she was. The way her eyes darted around Eleanor’s room, Eleanor could tell she was worried about getting an inferior room. And the way the other homecomings went, it was almost a certainty. 

 

“I was saving the best for last,” Michael said. Tahani breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing mattered as long as she had the best. “The best part is you guys are roomies! Check it out!” Michael opened what Eleanor thought was a closet door, but was actually a closet-turned-bedroom door.    
  


As Tahani pieced it together, the light left her eyes.  “This is my room?” 

 

“Isn’t it great?” Michael said. 

 

“It’s a bit small, isn’t it? Is that Ikea furniture?”

 

It was  _ very _ small.  Eleanor almost felt bad. Instead, she felt the most delicious sense of schadenfreude. 

 

“It’s hella Ikea,” Eleanor smirked. 

 

Tahani tentatively ventured into the storage space, her frown deepening. Michael put a consoling arm on Tahani’s shoulder, bending his elbow at an awkward angle to stop it from knocking into the wall.  “We need you to seem down-to-earth. Accessible. A meat and potatoes type of girl.” 

 

“Meat  _ and  _ potatoes?” Tahani asked. “In the same meal? I would never. Where do I put my clothes? And my other clothes? And my shoes?” 

 

Tahani’s voice pitched to near-tears, and it was at once the most gratifying and most irritating sound Eleanor ever heard. 

 

Michael gestured to a three-drawer dresser that must have been intended for a child. And, sure, it was more than Eleanor ever had growing up--and Tahani did need to be knocked down a few pegs--but Eleanor couldn’t stand the illogic behind the set up. Four rooms designed perfectly for four individuals, except none of them were allowed to have their match.

 

“Where is the bathroom?”

 

“The bathroom is in Eleanor’s room. So you walk out, you pass right through here, walk all the way through Eleanor’s room, past her dresser, past her mirror, keep walking, and voila! The bathroom. Super convenient.”

 

“This is stupid. We should just switch rooms,” Eleanor said. 

 

“No, no. We need to subvert expectations. For example, Chidi comes off as an uptight, boring bookworm. The worst thing anyone can be is an intellectual. And Jason has the opposite problem: he comes off as an idiot. So we balance it out a little. Video games for the professor, books for the Youtube star. Adds a bit of complexity to otherwise flavorless, one-dimensional characters.”

 

“We aren’t characters. We’re people. Living, breathing people with tastes and preferences. And class.” Tahani stared longingly in the direction of Eleanor’s room.

 

“And for women,” Michael continued as if Tahani hadn’t spoken, “public perception is doubly important. Unfortunate but true--I’m a feminist, but sadly the rest of the world isn’t as open-minded. Tahani seems vain, frivolous, shallow, obsessed with appearances. And Eleanor seems like a lesbian. So we give Eleanor the girly princess room and Tahani the shack. Balance.”

 

“That is a lot to unpack,” Chidi said.

 

“ _ I  _ have a lot to unpack!” Tahani squealed.

 

Michael put his hand up. “You signed up for my expertise, didn’t you?”

 

“They did. I have the contracts right here,” Janet said.

 

Michael ignored her. “Which means, on some level, you trust me or you’re desperate. Ideally both. And let’s face it, the way you all were before, the decisions you were making, the personalities you cultivated, they didn’t work. So you’re trying something new. Something drastic. Jason, read a book. Chidi, play a video game. Eleanor, wear something not flannel. You might discover that you like it.”

 

They mulled it over in sad, unconvinced silence. Michael took it as a rousing endorsement.

 

“And wait til you see the relationships we got planned! We got eight-month arcs before you even hook up.”

 

“Wait, what?” Eleanor said. 

 

“It’s called slow build. It’s so much more satisfying to an audience. You keep pushing closer and closer to a relationship, but never quite get there. It’s like romantic edging. People go crazy for it.”

 

“Eight months? So if you see we have more chemistry with someone else,  you can do a rewrite?” Tahani sidled close to Chidi and snaked an arm around his shoulder. He shuddered.

 

“No. No rewrites. Everything is planned. That’s reality, baby.”


End file.
